Alright, lemme just get this off my chest, man… I don't really talk about this chapter of my life too often—hell, my wife doesn't even know the whole truth, and I sure as hell ain't tellin' my daughter. But yeah... it's been 19 years. Maybe it's time I said it out loud.
So, picture this—early 2000s, I'm this dude living in LA, mid-twenties, feelin' invincible, y'know? I had a decent gig in Culver City, workin' tech support for a start-up that thought it was gonna be the next big thing. I had a condo in Koreatown, leased a black BMW I couldn't really afford, and I was deep into the nightlife—Hollywood, Venice, even some sketchy underground spots in East LA. I was livin' like I was already rich.
But man, I had a problem—gamblin'. It started small, just poker nights with the homies, a lil' sports betting. But once I tasted that quick cash high... whew. I started hittin' up Morongo and Commerce Casino like they were my second home. Thought I had it all figured out.
I maxed out three credit cards, sold my electronics, even borrowed from this dude I met downtown who definitely wasn't a banker, if you catch my drift. Thought I'd double it all back the next weekend. Spoiler: I didn't. I lost everything. Condo gone. Beamer towed. Friends? Nah, they ghosted. And my job? Fired my ass when I started missin' shifts. My phone was dead, literally and figuratively.
I was straight up livin' on the streets of LA. Slept behind this strip mall on Pico and Crenshaw. I remember wakin' up with rats sniffin' my backpack and people pretendin' not to see me. That hurts, man—bein' invisible in your own city.
I was out there for a couple weeks, just tryin' to scrape by—diggin' through trash for cans, stealin' fast food packets for flavor, sharin' a bench with this older vet named Leon. He told me, "Once you taste rock bottom, don't chew on it. Spit it out and climb." I didn't get it at the time.
Then one day—no joke—this dude in a suit walks by, stops, and just drops a hundred-dollar bill in my cup. Doesn't say a word. Just keeps walkin'. Man, I held that thing like it was made of gold. I thought about gettin' food, maybe new shoes or even bookin' a cheap motel for the night... but instead, my broke-ass brain whispered, "Casino."
So I took the Metro, got to Commerce, walked in smellin' like the sidewalk, and sat at a blackjack table. I was shakin'. I put down twenty. Won. Then another. Won again. Then again. I started buildin' it up—kept playin' for hours. By the end of the night, I walked out with enough to rent a small studio in Inglewood and buy some secondhand clothes.
Over the next few weeks, I flipped it. Legit. Hit up the casino a couple more times—carefully, y'know—and ended up gettin' back most of what I lost. Bought a used car. Landed a new gig doin' warehouse work. It was like... I had a second shot.
But then—like an idiot—I thought, "Yo, maybe I still got it. Maybe I can climb higher." Went back one more time. Bet big.
And boom—crash. Lost almost everything again. Not all of it, but enough to feel that pit in my stomach like I was starin' into the same hole I had just crawled out of. And lemme tell you, once you've felt real poverty—like, the kinda broke where the sunburns you 'cause you can't even afford shade—you don't ever wanna go back.
So I stopped. Cold turkey. Took what little I had left—maybe a quarter of what I rebuilt—and used it smart. Rented out a room, took night classes, switched jobs. Slowly, day by day, I built a real life. Real hustle. Real peace.
Now? I'm married. Got a beautiful wife who's way too good for me, honestly. And my daughter? She's about to start college this fall—first one in our family to do that. She thinks I've always been this reliable dad guy who knows how to fix the AC and grills a mean burger. She don't know I used to sleep behind a liquor store with nothin' but a crumpled flier and a broken dream in my pocket.
But that's why I wake up every day and grind. I don't ever wanna go back. That part of my life? It's a scar I wear under the surface. And maybe, just maybe, it's the reason I've kept it together all these years.
So yeah... that's my confession. Ain't proud of it, but it made me who I am. And if that ain't LA—fallin', breakin', rebuildin'—then I don't know what is.